


As the Heavens Have Done

by pr0nz69



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brother-Sister Relationships, Christmas, Dreams and Nightmares, Forgiveness, Gen, Guilt, Insecurity, Past Lives, The Future Past Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21738409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr0nz69/pseuds/pr0nz69
Summary: Morgan doesn't believe in past lives.No matter how many times he tells himself that, the dreams don't stop, though—they never stop.—Morgan is haunted by dreams of a past life he can’t remember.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	As the Heavens Have Done

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for _Open Your Eyes_ , the modern AU Awakening zine. Despite being the first zine piece I ever wrote over a year ago, it’s one of my favorite pieces to date!

Morgan doesn't believe in past lives. 

No matter how many times he tells himself that, the dreams don't stop, though—they never stop. Dreams of Mother wielding a blade like a lightning bolt, dressed in a robe with eyes up the sleeves that's too similar to her offbeat hoodie. Dreams of Father as a warrior-king bearing a sword like a dragon's fang, his face always obscured but his tattoo blazing in its usual place on his shoulder, stark against sun-bleached skin. Dreams of Lucina— _so many_ dreams of Lucina, sometimes when she's poised and regal and somber, other times when she's in men's garb with her hair tucked away and her face masked by a butterfly the color of midnight. The worst are when she's crying or bloodstained or kneeling at a shallow grave, solemnly praying. Mother and Father never appear in those dreams; Morgan can figure out why.

He thinks about the dreams a lot lately. They're too hard to shake off like he used to, and they only seem to get more frequent and vivid with age. They find him easily now, occupy all his quiet time. He tells himself he doesn't believe in past lives because it's the only shield he has left.

_Shield_ —he almost laughs, grimly, as he stirs the pot simmering before him, watching the cocoa bubble like hot tar. How appropriate that he should draw upon imagery of warfare. It's all starting to get to him.

He leans back against the counter, closing his eyes. The kitchen smells like chocolate and the minty, musty odor of the Christmas kitsch Aunt Lissa hauled down from the attic when she stopped by the other day, complaining about Father's lack of festivity when Christmas is only two weeks away. The decorations are tacky, sometimes even ugly in the case of the singing disco Santa, but they're homey in a way that feels comforting, and Morgan needs that familiarity right now.

The cocoa starts to boil, so he turns down the heat and pulls the jug of milk from the fridge, popping the cap and taking a sniff—still fresh, but not for long. Father always forgets to go shopping, and Mother's away on business until next week. Morgan's always been more like her, though, so he'll jot it down on his list for when he goes to the supermarket tomorrow. For now, he'll finish it off. A pragmatic mind can't stomach wastefulness.

He stirs in the milk and watches the cocoa thicken. That's kind of like his dreams, too—getting thicker and heavier and harder to move through, and then, maybe, they'll boil over. Before the cocoa can, at least, he turns off the heat and sets the pot on another burner. He adds the vanilla extract and wonders if maybe he needs something like that, something to sweeten this all up even a little.

As an afterthought, he cuts an apple into slices on a plate and drenches it in cinnamon. Then he dresses two mugs of cocoa with whipped cream and peppermint sticks and gathers everything onto a tray. Maybe it's subconscious, using stronger flavors to mask—whatever it is he's trying to mask. He tries not to think about it as he carries the tray into the sitting room.

Lucina's there in the armchair closest to the fireplace where flames leap against the grate. She looks up from her book when he enters and smiles. “What did I do to get blessed with such a wonderful little brother?”

Morgan blushes. “Stop that,” he mutters, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “I was just trying to use up the rest of the milk before it goes bad.”

He knows that doesn't explain the apple, and Lucina does, too, giving him an amused look before helping herself to a couple slices. It's hard to accept praise from her lately, though, and he's always on the verge of apologizing.

He feels he has to. In the dreams, he's never one of the good guys.

He takes one of the mugs and goes to sit on the carpet before the fireplace, back turned toward Lucina. That doesn't stop her from talking to him, though.

“How was the end of your semester? Tests go okay?”

It's the small talk he expects. She only got back from school herself yesterday.

“Things are good,” he says. “How about you?”

He can't bear to sit beside her, as a prince, as an equal. In the dreams, he betrays her, betrays all of them. He doesn't know why; he never gets an answer, and his past self never asks the question. What he _does_ know is that he—that the other Morgan—is starved for comfort. He must be to crave the impersonal touch of those brusque gloved hands that grip his shoulders (to guide him or restrain him, he doesn't know), muss his hair, hold his face like a mother would, but Mother's never in those dreams, and he doesn't question that, either.

“Morgan?”

He starts. “What?” he says, a little defensively. He looks over his shoulder at Lucina and sees her frown, sees the concerned crease fold into her brow.

“What's the matter, little brother? You seem so out of it lately. You were like this last time I saw you, too. If there's anything you need to talk about... Well, I'm always here.”

She's too kind to him, a blood traitor. It makes him uncomfortable, and yet he can't explain it to her, not without sounding crazy.

“It's nothing. I'm just tired.”

He doesn't sleep well—that part's not a lie.

“Mo.” Reproachfully.

It irritates him, for some reason. “Don't call me that.”

He shouldn't have said it because it makes it worse, makes her get up from her chair and come sit beside him, leaning on his shoulder. “Come on.” She's so warm, so full of love for him. “What's wrong?”

He stares into his mug, at the whipped cream collapsing into it, dissolving into white foam. He gets it; it's so hard to stand tall when he constantly feels like he's sinking.

“Do you ever feel like a princess?” he blurts out. He really is going crazy.

Lucina laughs, and he isn't sure if he's annoyed or relieved. “When you treat me like this”—holding out her mug, skimming the top of the melting whipped cream with her tongue—”of course I do.”

He sighs. “Right. Yeah.”

“But you know, if I'm a princess, then that makes you a prince.”

He recoils on instinct. “No—I'm a traitor.” It slips out before he can think to stop it.

Lucina straightens and turns to face him. “I was going to say I should return the favor since you're always spoiling me. What's this really about, Morgan?”

He can't lie to her now—it'll just make him sound worse, and he's never been good at it besides.

“Just some weird dream I have sometimes.” He says it dismissively, trying to downplay it, to her and maybe to himself as well.

“Hm. A recurring nightmare, huh?”

“No, not really...” She knows him too well.

“What happens in the dreams?” she asks, innocently by all appearances, but he can tell she's probing deep for answers, and part of him wants to give them to her.

“I don't know... It's all so surreal. Just... disjointed scenes of you and Mother and Father as royalty of some ancient kingdom. It's not _all_ bad—sometimes you lead campaigns or throw feasts or hold court or even just explore the castle.”

For all the dreams' unpleasantries, he does love the castle, perched high up on a gem-green hill in the heart of the capital city, encircled by a moat shimmering with the silvery new feathers of cygnets in molt. He loves the windswept courtyard and its tangles of soft grass, loves lying on his back in it and looking up at a procession of clouds. He loves to patrol the outer wall, peeking between the battlements at all the castle's comers and goers, loves the way the limestone bricks burn vermillion in the setting sun. He never gets to explore the castle as himself, always as some omniscient observer far removed from the time and place, but he does on occasion see young Lucina tearing through its halls in childlike wonder, and at least that's something.

“It all sounds so charming,” she says now, “except for the fact that you're not there.”

It's as if she can read his mind. He stays silent.

“That's what bothers you, huh?”

He pulls up his knees and tucks his chin into them. “It's not just that. When I _am_ there, it's all wrong. When I'm there, I'm not _with_ you guys. I'm with some kind of... evil god or something. I don't know.”

He expects Lucina to tease him for his overactive imagination because he knows he would do the same in her place, if he'd never had the dreams, if he'd been _normal_.

“Well, why are you with the evil god?” is all she says, though, and she's so forthright that he almost laughs.

“I wish I knew. But the me in the dreams never questions it. But he— _I_ do terrible things for that... _thing_. I think I—I think it killed Father.” He chokes up even as he realizes how stupid he must sound, getting so emotional over a silly dream.

Lucina puts her arm around his shoulder. “Mo,” she says, “you would never hurt any of us. Don't take those dreams to heart. They don't mean anything.”

He jerks away. “They do to me!” He doesn't mean to say it. He hates admitting it.

“I-I'm sorry, sis,” he mumbles, relaxing back beside her. “I know I shouldn't let it bother me, but...” He can't believe he's having this conversation with her right now. It's surreal in itself.

Her hair slips over her shoulder as she shakes her head. “No, _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Nightmares are psychological. It makes sense that they mess with you in ways none of us can really understand. And just because it's in your head doesn't mean it isn't real.”

Morgan sighs. “It's fine. Just—don't worry about it. I'll try not to let them bother me anymore.” It's too awkward. At this age, he doesn't need his big sister worrying over him like this, especially over something so minuscule, so insignificant.

“I think the problem,” Lucina says, “is how they make you feel guilty in your waking hours. But you have nothing to feel guilty about, Morgan. You've done nothing wrong.”

He should agree with her, leave it at that. He doesn't need to sound any crazier, but the pull of catharsis is too sweet to resist.

“I just feel like they're more than dreams. I feel like they... Like they _really_ might have happened.”

He needs to stop.

“Like they're glimpses into a past life.”

_Shut up, Morgan._

“And—and what then?” He sucks in a breath, heart pounding. “What if I really _did_ serve an evil god that killed Father and did who knows what to Mother and betrayed you and Owain and all of our friends? What if I really _did_ do all that in a past life? What if I do it in _this_ life? What then, Lucina? _What_?”

He's losing his mind.

“You would never do that,” Lucina repeats, and he's about to object when she adds, “There had to be a reason why. Some explanation.”

“But what if there _wasn't_?” he explodes.

In the near-silence that follows, the crackling of the fire sounds like thunder claps, and Morgan wants to make it rain.

“There _had_ to be,” Lucina says at last, and somehow, she sounds unshaken, resolute. “Good or bad, something made you do it. You never, of your own will, _never_ would betray us for no reason. _Never_ . I _know_ you, Morgan. In this life. And in this life, you need to forgive yourself for what you might have done in some other life.”

“Forgive... myself?” How could he? How could he ever when he did those things to his own family?

“Yes. Because nothing will come of holding a grudge, no matter the reason. Even against yourself. You're a good person, Morgan. I know you are.” She wraps her arm around his shoulder again, squeezes it. “Please don't beat yourself up over this. Mother and Father and I, we're all here, we're all alive. And we will _always_ love you. No matter what.”

Morgan is quiet for a long while, and then, with a hint of tired amusement: “You don't _really_ believe in past lives, do you?”

Lucina laughs, and shrugs. “Well, who knows?”

He smiles a little. “Thanks for humoring me at least, sis. I guess I'll—I'll try what you said. Forgiving myself.”

She ruffles his hair, and he shoos her away. “Don't ever think you can't talk to me about anything,” she says. “I will always listen to what you have to say. After all, it's my job to look after my baby brother. Even if I couldn't in some other life, I swear I will in this one.”

It's a strange sort of relief to hear her say it.

When he sleeps that night, he dreams of the apocalypse. Lucina and the others are lying in wait to kill him, to kill the Fell Dragon. He'll die protecting his master, though. He always does.

Someone approaches him, and he turns, and it's Mother, younger than he's used to seeing her in this time, but she's unmistakable with her robe and pigtails.

“You remind me of someone dear to me,” she says casually, as if they're passersby in the street, as if this isn't war.

“It's none of your business,” he says weakly, and she smiles, like she already knew what he would say.

She hands him a book, and he only needs to hold it in his hands to know that he already has it, has had it all these years, dog-eared and annotated and read cover to cover several times over.

Mother lets her hands linger on his. “If you could go back,” she says, “if you could take all this back and start again, be reborn in a time of peace, would you do it?”

It's so heavy a question, but his answer is instantaneous, long waiting on the tip of his tongue.

“Yes.”


End file.
